


Make Good

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Quid Pro Quo [7]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Frank Castle is an Idiot, It's Not Actually Complicated Frank's Just Stupid, M/M, a lot happens here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank agrees to let Cable pay off his last owed favour.





	Make Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> I really did not know how to tag this. If things need to be tagged, let me know.
> 
> This is for Inbox, who knows what's good.

The thing Frank learned, once he'd given Wade a key to his apartment, was that as reckless and impulsive and outright asinine as Wilson could be, he was also a respectful guest now that it was clear he _was_ a guest. About that, Cable had been absolutely correct.

There were still times Frank wanted to shoot the weaselly little shit in the head. Like the time he came back to the apartment to find his tub slimy with blood and a note that said 'will clean later', like Frank wasn't going to scrub out the mess himself the second he found it. Or the time all the underwear in his dresser disappeared, replaced with slippery, silky things with various logos from the cape and costume crowd on them. Or the time he found Wade on the floor beside his bed, blood spread in a corona around his head, cold and dead, and had to sit there, heart in his throat, for five minutes until Wilson jerked back to life, choking and spluttering.

He _had_ kicked the man's unkillable ass for that, and stood over him with a beer in hand, wishing for something stronger, as he watched to make sure Wilson scrubbed every bit of blood and brain off the floor and wall. Wilson took the beating like he knew he deserved it, and while he didn't apologize, he agreed placidly that he wouldn't use Frank's apartment for killing himself again.

Wade had a weird way about him. He was strange, not just annoying or upsetting but just fucking _weird_ , and one of the things Frank found himself getting not just used to but sort of fond of, was the little bastard’s way of leaving gifts.

Gifts were different than pranks. The underwear thing was a prank. When it was a gift, nothing disappeared, nothing was stolen, and there was usually a note. Sometimes the note was just that hasty, crude drawing of Wilson's mask, sometimes it was longer, signed with x's and o's or a scrawled 'love' with a heart for an 'o', too goofy to be serious.

The gifts were also often useful, if fucking weird. A pink camo-print handgun. A tac-vest with a skull picked out on it in dark stitching, the eye-holes shaped like hearts.

The socks sitting on his bed with a little folded note were... interesting. Good quality, the kind of athletic type that would be both warm and breathable. The accompanying note simply said 'don't catch cold' with a series of x's and o's that ran off the page in Wilson's typical fashion.

He didn't exactly get the joke. He hadn't smoked weed since he was a teenager, at first because the military could and did test at random and he would've been booted if he'd tested positive even once. Afterwards, he hadn't seen much appeal in recreational drugs.

Maybe _that_ was the joke. Something about him being too straitlaced. Wilson seemed to be especially tickled when he saw Frank making use of his gifts, like he expected them to be thrown out. Frank resolved blandly to wear the socks in rotation with the others he already owned, because what did it matter if he wore socks printed with a pattern of weed-leaves? No one was going to see them. He always wore boots.

When Cable asks for his assistance with some group that's been targeting mutants, experimenting on and executing them, Frank agrees. Cable tells him he should bring 'standard equipment' as well as extra clothes, his tone plainly suggesting that he was hoping to mix business and pleasure. Frank agreed and packed a bag.

The weed socks came with him. It wasn't a conscious choice; they were clean and fell under hand when he was grabbing gear to wear, and he'd worn them often enough since Wilson had left them that he didn't think much about them when he pulled them on before grabbing his boots.

He doesn't think about his socks at all until the job is done and Cable has teleported (or whatever it's called that he does) them away from the flaming ruin of the lab they'd left behind, mutants saved and fuckhead idiots cleared out or scattered to the four winds for later clean up.

Cable has way more safe houses than Frank would have expected for a guy who, as far as Frank knew, just arrived from the future a year or so ago. They're someplace warm, with ugly wallpaper and tall windows. Could be back in New York, maybe, or anywhere with a similar climate for the time of year. When you can teleport, you can go anywhere, and since Frank's not exactly going to go out and ask a local for a chat, it's not like it much matters to him.

 _I would have thought you'd recognize your home turf better, Frank_ , Cable's voice mocks from the back of his head, the man busily unstrapping his gear and stowing his over sized gun. _You don't have a problem with heights, do you?_

Frank makes a face, he can't help it. Heights are not the problem; the problem is, he'd have expected himself to be able to recognize New York City from any angle, and his glance out the window had told him only 'large city, probably American'. It felt like slipping, and Cable's voice in his head feels like taunting.

When Cable looks at him and asks, out loud, if he'd like a beer, Frank nods. Cable tells him to go wash his hands and he scoffs but goes toward the direction he'd been nodded to, finding the bathroom easily and scrubbing his hands and face. There's a greasy sheen of sweat and filth on him; he needs a shower before any... well, anything else Cable might want after a beer.

At least this time his face isn't black-and-blue. Neither of them are injured, the mission had been shockingly simple with just the two of them working in concert. Cable gave good orders and Frank followed them without back talk. It worked well for them.

It's a good arrangement, Frank thinks.

He's handed a bottle of cold beer as he heads back into the main space of the apartment, nodding his thanks as he crosses to the big windows, trying to figure out exactly where they are from the view. After a second he pins it down, feels both pleased and like an idiot.

Guys like him don't spend a lot of time in Long Island high rises.

Cable slides up behind him, pressed close after a second. There's something about that, about the casual care Cable shows for his personal space, that Frank appreciates. Where Wilson will touch endlessly without warning or without care, Cable always telegraphs his intent, or asks outright permission. Wilson just accepts that Frank might shove him away or hit him; Cable clarifies intent before attempting physical contact in some measure.

Frank's toes curl in his boots, like he can root himself in place, as Cable presses his face against the joint of neck and shoulder, metal arm holding Frank close, wrapped about his waist. Almost instinctively, Frank cocks his head to one side, letting Cable put his mouth to the side of his neck, open mouthed with a hint of teeth.

"I seem to recall I owe you another favour," Cable tells him, voice a low rasp. The sun is sliding lower in the sky, glinting off all the glass of the buildings around them, sultry and warm where it falls through those tall windows. Frank has a sudden vision of Cable fucking him against one of those windows, broad daylight be damned, and he couldn't say if it's his idea or if Cable is sharing.

The warm chuckle behind him doesn't clarify much.

Cable's hand slides up over the flat of his stomach, pulling his shirt from where it's tucked into his dark jeans. Frank fishes for something smart to say, ends up with a flat, "Yeah."

He's never claimed to be a man of wit.

Metal fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, feeling through the smattering of body hair on his stomach, following it up under the fabric to his chest. "There a reason you haven't called that favour in, Lieutenant?"

Frank's not exactly sure, ever, how he's supposed to react to this shit. It never came natural to him, even with his wife. Maria could tease and boss him and it was all fine and good, they both enjoyed themselves, but he'd always been a little stiff, better when he was just told what was wanted. He fidgets with the bottle in his hand and takes an awkward drink, lifting the shoulder Cable's chin isn't resting on in a shrug. "Both been busy."

Nosing under his ear, petting back down the front of him, Cable teases his fingers under the waistband of Frank's pants. Frank's glad he'd already taken off the vest, but he wishes he'd thought to remove his cup. There's something about Cable that always makes him feel a little jittery, more eager than he's used to be. It's weird, being the one who wants more, faster, who doesn't know how to ask or what to say.

"I can always make time for _you_ ," Cable purrs, and Frank revels in the weird flip-flop of his heart, the way delight rivals with the instinct to deny or dispute the comment. Cable might be _willing_ to make time for him, for this kind of... unnecessary shit, but probably he _shouldn’t_. He's got bigger fish to fry.

He doesn't fight it when Cable nudges his human fingers at his jaw, turning willingly to let Cable kiss him. He's not sure they've done this before, kissed on the mouth like this. Cable might kiss other parts of him, his temple, his brow, his neck. Now he tastes like beer and spit and he knows it's probably not the best angle, but he lets it happen.

"You married to that window idea," Cable asks, lips moving against Frank's. It takes Frank a second to reconcile that the kiss really has ended, the voice is not in his head. He makes a sound that's half a laugh, self-deprecating, feeling thrown just slightly off his game by something as simple and easy as that kiss. "We can do that, but you're gonna hurt like hell after."

Considerate. That's the big difference between Cable and Wilson in this. Wade is impulsive and eager and never thinks before he does. Cable thinks maybe too much -- took this long to get something as simple as a real fucking kiss from him -- but he uses the time to think to be mindful of Frank in the long run, not just the span of time they're together.

To take care of him.

It's not something Frank's really used to.

"You got a better idea, I'm inclined to listen," Frank says, and then, before he can stop himself, before he can overthink his way out of it, adds a soft, "Sir," to the end.

The loss of warmth at his back is balanced by the way metal fingers tangle with his own. Frank's not... not obsessed with the metal, not the way Wilson seems to be, but there's something about the reminder, the strangeness of it, that he really likes. There's an odd yielding quality to the metal, not as giving as flesh would be but not hard like real metal. There's enormous strength in it, but again, Cable is careful, considerate, his grip on Frank's hand loose as he pulls him into the bedroom.

Pressed onto the bed, Frank lets himself be swallowed in Cable's warm weight, the man seeming bigger than he actually is. They're of a height, but Cable's got the sort of presence that makes him seem to take up the room, command in every inch of him. Frank likes relenting to it. Cable likes watching him relent.

Cable straddles Frank's waist and kisses him again, more insistent, hungry. He doesn't kiss like anybody else Frank has ever let close; he's not drunk or sloppy or demanding. He's just in charge and taking what he wants, but never more than Frank's ready to give.

 _I'm gonna need you to shower_ , Cable says, tongue feeling out the unevenness of Frank's teeth. _But first I'm gonna blow you. I want your hands in my hair when you cum, Frank._

The sound Frank makes is something strangled, dick aching against the pressure of his cup. He can't nod when he's shoved into the bed like this, Cable mauling his mouth, but his brain is nothing but acquiescence.

Seemed to be enough for Cable. Benefits of telepathy, Frank thinks, gasping a short breath as Cable bites sharply along his jaw, down his neck. He’d walked away from their job without much injury, but he didn’t mind going home with a few new bruises anyway.

Cable’s fingers bite into his thigh with agonizing precision as the man slips down his body and onto his knees beside the bed, dragging Frank roughly back. Frank’s never considered himself exactly _passive_ in anything he does, but there’s something about the way Cable handles him, moves him around, that makes him feel pliant and usable in a way that should be terrible, should be insufferable, and is somehow the hottest goddamn thing Frank’s ever experienced.

“Sit up,” Cable snarls, plucking open Frank’s jeans with eager ease. “Hands on me, I said.”

Sluggish, a war in his head between want and an ingrained (useless) sense of self preservation, Frank obeys. He’s getting used to this. The band around his lungs, the hammer of his heart; a personal, private panic that ticks up at the worst times when he hands himself over to Cable this way. His head still screams at the ridiculousness of placing himself in such a vulnerable position, even as the whole rest of him settles willingly into it.

He needs to breathe. He needs a moment.

Big, strong hands press at his thighs, not digging into the muscle but just rubbing, up and down. Frank feels like a jackass, sitting there with his eyes clamped shut, this powerful, attractive guy willing on his knees before him, trying to force himself to breathe even. To unclench his fists. To _relax_.

At least Cable knows better than to move. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t try to give Frank extra space. What he does is slip into Frank’s stupid head, not clumsy but somehow in a way that Frank _feels_ him there, observing. It helps; there’s no judgement in the observation. It’s Cable in complete command, taking stock, seeing what needs doing.

He exhales and opens his eyes, one hand jerking impulsively from the bedspread to Cable’s hair, feeling over the stubble where it’s shaved down close and into the longer, thicker silver. “Okay,” he says. “I’m good.”

 _Could be better_ Cable says, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk before he’s moving again. When Frank seizes up again, it’s not panic it’s just the shock of sudden relief and pleasure, Cable pulling away the cup and tossing it aside with one hand while the other keeps hold of Frank, stroking him. The metal hand on his dick is both horrific and erotic, equal measures good and bad, and Frank lets himself whine a little noise as Cable thumbs back his foreskin, swiping at the wetness already beading the head.

There’s a sort of magic to Cable’s mouth. Frank’s gotten himself off too many times to count thinking about Cable on his knees in that shower, the utter power of him all focused on Frank, on sucking his brains out through his dick. If he was even a little less perfect, just a fraction less talented with that smirking mouth, Frank might be able to keep some measure of composure.

As it is, Cable _is_ that good, all tight heat and suction, moving his tongue just so while he draws filth from Frank’s mind. All Frank’s secret, buried fantasies pulled up in a series of awful, perfect things Frank tries to squirm away from, like he hasn’t cum all over himself in private over these exact ideas. Cable pulls them out of the hidden places in the dark corners of him mind, only ever the shameful-too-good-dirty things, and fans the ideas out like cards from which to pick, commenting on them like works of art, like he’s weighing them for merit.

It’s all notions and desires, glimpses and flashes, each with their own merit and all given Cable’s resounding approval, until he halts on one concept in particular. Frank gasps audibly, a little horrified by the sense of _want_ that pours off Cable at Frank’s own mental image of himself, chained and collared, snarling and writhing in pleasure as Cable takes him, eats him out, sucks him off, stands before him just out of reach so Frank has to half-choke himself on the chain around his neck if he wants to taste that perfect cock.

Without thinking, Frank’s got both hands on his face, trying to hide the hot colour blooming from the roots of his hair to beneath the collar of his shirt.

 _Hands on me_ , Cable growls in his head, and there’s nothing Frank can do but obey. He’s close, so close, too fast and too eager, and he clenches his fingers hard in Cable’s hair and cums helplessly when that same mental voice purrs an easy, _good boy_.

Frank is left boneless and gasping as Cable sucks him clean and kneels back, slipping out of Frank’s grip easily. It couldn’t possibly be worse if Cable were as disgusted by the thought as Frank expected him to be, the awfulness of it’s achievability now cemented in Frank’s mind, just out of reach but tangible nonetheless.

He needs a minute. Cable, hands on his thighs again, gives it to him, a quiet, easy presence. For a guy who exudes so much power, who could probably kill Frank with a thought, Cable can be a very soothing influence.

“Hey,” Cable says after a bit of stillness. Frank, aware that he’s still beet red, perks an eyebrow but does not open his eyes. He can’t yet, but he’s amenable to help.

And Cable gives him that, too. A slow sense of calm fizzles over the shame, Cable’s mental presence strokes over the jagged, agitated surface of Frank’s, using no words to impress a sense of _All is well_ into him.

When he cracks an eye open, Cable looks back placidly, the only hint of his concern in the depth of that one blue eye. Before Cable can ask any stupid questions or start worrying about boundaries and limits and going too far, Frank just shakes his head. He’s fine. He’s good. He does not need hand holding or kid gloves, and will in point of fact kick Cable’s ass if he starts offering them.

“You wanted me to shower,” he finally says, his voice a little weaker for how dry his mouth is. Cable pauses for just a second, and Frank can feel him rummaging in his brain because Cable wants him to know he’s there, making sure this is what Frank actually wants. He can almost _hear_ the asshole telling him ‘it’s okay to have limits’.

He opens his mouth to tell him off, tell him _if I hadn’t liked it, I would’ve told you so_ , snap something about trust going two ways and Cable needing to accept it when Frank tells him he’s fine. He’s not used to being cared about, doesn’t know how to handle it, certainly not with any measure of grace.

Then Cable smacks his leg and nods, moving heavily to his feet.

They trade spaces, after a fashion, Frank standing where Cable was kneeling while Cable sits heavily on the end of the bed and starts prying his boots off. Frank manages the trick of getting his own boots off while his trousers are open and his dick is out, and pauses when he feels Cable staring. He nudges his boots together so their standing neat at the foot of the bed and then stands to shuck his jeans, glancing at Cable to try and figure out what’s got him looking at him that way.

Cable’s lips are curved in a fond, soft kind of smile, staring at, of all things, Frank’s feet. His socks, more likely, white athletic socks festooned with a pattern of marijuana leaves. Frank scoffs, kicking his dark jeans off and toward his boots. “Wade,” he says simply, because Cable generally understands his meaning with few words.

Judging by the vague nod, this is no different. Maybe Wade showed Cable the things he got for Frank before leaving them in Frank’s apartment. More likely, Cable simply knows Wade’s the only person in Frank’s life fool enough to gift him a thing like a pair of stoner-themed socks.

Frank’s balanced on one leg, prying one sock off and thinking about how Wade’s gifts should probably be numbered to include the (embarrassing, overwhelming) ridiculous 'good boy' thing and Frank’s enamorment with the idea of wearing a collar and leash in a sexual setting, when Cable stands and moves back into his space. He straightens up slowly, dropping the sock onto his pile of shed clothing, and then Cable kisses him again.

“You know, if you threw the crap he got you away, he wouldn’t care. It’s what most people do.”

Several things occur to Frank to say. That it would be fucking rude to throw out something perfectly serviceable. That the socks are good quality. That Wade’s an idiot if he’s wasting his time on people who’d throw away things he bought them. But they already both know Wade’s an idiot, and none of those little bullet points really hit onto the _actual_ point.

Cable says, “It’s nice, seeing someone else treat him decent.”

Quite deliberately, enough so that he knows Cable won’t be able to miss the intent, Frank elects not to think about all the reasons that fills him with a clawing, snarling need to deny.

It says something, probably unpleasant, about the man he's become, that his first impulse is to deny being one of the few to treat Wade well. Frank finds that it's one thing to think, in the dubious safety of his own head, that Wilson is a friend -- that he likes him, wants more good than bad for him -- but it's really quite another to hear anyone else say it.

Wisely, as ever, Cable doesn’t push it. He lets Frank go shower, but the seed is planted and what's growing in Frank's head won't let him alone. What the three of them have is not supposed to be rooted in emotion and it feels dangerous to let that kind of thing rope him. And yet he (idiotically, hedonistically) refuses to just drop it, either. He doesn’t want to stop -- he doesn’t want to go back now that he’s had a taste.

It's not just Wade, though Wade's the one Frank gave his spare key, and Wade's the one bringing him gifts signed with expressions of (joking, it has to be a joke) love Frank obstinately refuses to entertain as even _possibly_ serious. Cable's the one he trusts blindly, Cable's the one who's picked through his head and tried, subtly and not-so-subtly, to help him sort his shit.

He'd love to be able to say it's just the fear of someone using his… fondness of them as a way to hurt him. It would be easier if he could blame it solely on that, because as stupid a fear as that is when both of the idiots are liable to outlive him by a span of years, he thinks they'd at least understand that if he were forced to admit it.

Frank is bad for other people. That's the core of it, he thinks. Pare away all the rest and that's the real issue. He's never cared about a person and not ended up getting that person in some real kind of fuckshit trouble. Mostly, when he turns his attention on another person, for any reason, they die. If they don't die, they get hurt, and they get hurt bad.

Wilson is one of those people who sees that and doesn't care. Maybe because by his own admission, Wilson's much the same sort of guy; the people he cares about tend to get hurt or dead. Frank would've thought Cable was smarter, but he ain't. And Frank knows from stubborn. Even if he tried to slink off and end this now, Wilson would keep coming around, Cable would insist they retain some level of business relationship, since they work so well together, and it might stop for a month or a year but eventually he'd be unable to help himself.

Because he's had a taste. Because sometimes suffering has no point, and there's no tactical value in pointless martyrdom.

He shakes himself off like a dog before grabbing one of the two towels hanging by the stall, and resolves that he's allowed to enjoy this. What he's found here, what he has with Cable and Wilson is more complex than a few throwaway fucks, but not something that needs definition. It's a good thing, and he's allowed to indulge in good things where he finds them, uncommon as they are.

"You brought two things here that Wade gave you, Lieutenant," Cable says when he returns to the bedroom. Frank's a little surprised to see that, other than his boots, Cable is still fully dressed. Frank stops a few paces from the bed, naked in the middle of the room. "You want me to tell you what they are?"

Frank responds without thinking, the same way he falls into a relaxed sort of parade rest. "Sir."

Cable grins, sharp, his eye glinting. "Socks, and that cute praise kink that set you off so fast."

There's a number of arguments to be made on that assertion, starting with whether it was the praise that turned the trick there and ending somewhere around the fact that Cable had been the one, strictly speaking, to start calling him a good soldier. Frank can't stop himself from thinking them, but keeps his mouth shut.

Standing, Cable make a low sort of tsking sound, pulling a frown that does nothing to erase the smile in his eyes. His eyes are _fond_ , damn him, they're warm and pleased like Cable couldn't be happier that he's got Frank standing here like this.

"You forget I can hear you being smart with me even when you stay quiet," Cable drawls, coming to stand by him. "Between the two of you, you're a sight better than Wade at obedience, but at least if I gag Wade I can't hear the backsass running through his head."

Frank swallows. He can feel himself sliding all too easily into that headspace, that place where nothing matters but what Cable tells him. It's the place Cable took him to that first time, alone together in his apartment. It's that place Cable shoved him down into and made him small and miserable in when Frank had asked him for punishment.

He likes it there; it's a hell of a lot simpler, even if he has to deal with the drop when it's all over. His breath catches and he forces it to steady as Cable locks his hands behind his own back, watching him.

"That's right, that's good," Cable says, easy, soft praise Frank hasn't done anything to earn. It burns through him anyway, the words and the sweet way Cable says them, like it's enough just for Frank to want to trust him. The hot band choking Frank's lungs eases again, and Cable smiles. "Kneel for me," Cable orders, and it does not escape Frank that he's standing on a soft, woven rug, where the rest of the room is hardwood. Cable doesn't do things impulsively.

On his knees it's a lot like being on his back with Cable spread out over him. Cable seems taller and broader, or else Frank himself just seems to have gotten smaller. Cable has all the power, is the important thing; he has all the power because Frank has given it to him.

A big hand pets over his hair, and Frank parts his lips without thinking, embarrassed to realize he's expecting -- hoping for -- Cable to open his trousers and feed him his cock.

"Greedy," Cable admonishes, fond. "I want you to stay right here while I shower. If you're good, I've got a special treat to pay back the favour I owe you."

He doesn't wait for an answer or an agreement to his terms. He simply steps around him, fingers trailing back over Frank's scalp as he goes. Frank listens for the soft sound of the bathroom door shutting and the rush of water through the pipes, and tightens his hands behind his back. He's a sniper, and a damn good one; Frank is more than capable of patience.

Part of him vaguely hopes for that phantom touch, for Cable to play with him while he's gone, but that's greedy too, and he knows it. He can feel Cable's amusement when he admonishes himself for it. He's not a brat, he's not _Wade_ , begging and conning and demanding for more and more.

 _My good little soldier_ , he hears, Cable almost smug in the back of his head. He's all warm and satisfied, and his pleasure sends a spark echoing through Frank, the simple sense of having Done Well.

It's easier like this. Easier to float in simple pleasure, lost in the need to just do what he's been told to, one base, plain directive. The war will be waiting for him to pick up when they're done, in a few minutes or hours or whenever Cable decides he's satisfied.

He thinks about Cable saying earlier that he'd always make time for him and lets himself enjoy the idea at last, lets himself feel the honesty of it. He likes being good for Cable, likes just being allowed in his space, and Cable mirrors that. Cable likes him. Cable would make time for him. And that is okay; he's allowed to have that.

He's allowed to have these useless, unnecessary things.

For a while, Frank just floats in that mental space. Maybe it's like meditating; he wouldn't know. He doesn't do much of that zen shit. But it's a good place, mentally. Feel the warm, mildly humid air on his skin. The gathering ache in his knees. Listen to the sound of the shower behind him, the slow draw and exhale of his own steady breathing. There is no need to move because he hasn't been told to; the order he must follow is to be still, and he is obedient.

He straightens his spine, unaware of how he'd started to curl over himself until he hears the creak of the floorboards and the steady pace of Cable's steps. He'd missed the shower going off.

When Cable comes to stand in front of him, he looks up at him calmly, accepting the fondness of his expression. It's easier to accept when he's floating half in that obedient mindset, letting himself be lead; Cable must be fond of him, or he wouldn't bother. Everything is simpler when he lets himself stop thinking so damn much.

Cable is naked and his skin, when he touches Frank, is a little damp. He smells good, but Frank thought he smelled just as good before washing, just a different good. The sweat and cordite thing was honest, same as hot coffee and blood on Frank.

It's only the subtle shift of humor in Cable's exhale, not exactly a chuckle, that reminds Frank that the man can hear him. He's not sure if it's spite or what that makes him bring up, intentionally project, an idle fantasy he's had for a while, of Cable fucking him after a job, both of them dirty and tired but unable to wait, needy. He imagines Cable holding him down with that metal hand, his knees shoved to his chest, blood that's not either of theirs streaking Cable's face, smearing onto Frank when they --

 _Jesus, Frank,_ Cable thinks, dispelling the thought. He doesn't sound offended or sickened, or amused. He sounds goddamn _thoughtful_ , like it's an idea worth considering, and that puts a not-so-subtle shiver down Frank's spine. _You'd let me do that to you?_

Frank cocks an eyebrow, he can't help it. He'd cum harder than he'd cum in months at the thought of Cable letting him choke, collared like a dog, straining to get a taste of his cock while Cable called him a 'good boy', but this is the thing that stuns the man. "Anything you want," he admits, like that's not horrifying. It's terrible because it's the truth, but it's an easy terror to bear because Cable has proven over and over again that he won't use that trust to hurt Frank.

A moment, while Cable mulls that over. Frank's knees are starting to really holler, and his back is nagging now too, but he doesn't move until Cable steps back and tells him to lay on the bed. "Lay on your back," he says, so Frank does. The mattress is firm and comfortable, and Frank dimly thinks again, how odd it is that Cable has these places, these ugly but comfortable places that probably cost more a month than Frank pays for his shoe-box a year.

Thought dissipates as Cable settles on the bed with him, settling between his spread legs and lifting them easily. There's twin bruises on either thigh, already darkened up nicely, from where Cable had grabbed him earlier and dragged him  down the bed. This time he's gentler, putting Frank in almost exactly the position Frank had been imaging a moment ago, folding him in half.

Funny that Cable was conscientious enough to think of how bad Frank would hurt if he fucked him standing at the window, then laid him out like this. Cable snorts softly, pressing a kiss to the back of Frank's thigh before telling him to hold his legs like that. Frank obeys; what the hell else is he going to do?

Cable slips off the bed, rummaging for something in a dresser across the room. Lube, Frank hopes; that's one thing fantasies never need to work out, and Frank might like the thought of being fucked rough and raw by this man, but practically speaking he'd rather be able to walk steady when it's time for him to leave.

"I like a practical mind," Cable says, something amused and pleased in his tone as he gets back on the bed. He settles low on the bed, between Frank's legs, looking down at him like he's a piece of art or special meal he can't wait to dig into. That thought gets another little huff of amusement, and then Cable's hands slip under Frank, tipping him further up, so it's hard to breathe.

Without a word of warning, no sign of intent, Cable spreads him open and licks, wet and sloppy, over his hole. Frank gasps something startled, half a curse and half just noise, and Cable does it again, flat of his tongue broad and hot against Frank. He licks over Frank's taint right up to his balls and then back to his hole, eating him out like he's starved for it. His hands shift but the support of them is still there, telekinesis holding the angle so hands can mold over his ass and hold him open, letting Cable lick deeper, spearing his tongue into Frank.

It's disgusting, and the way Cable hums and groans like it's the best thing he's ever gotten to do gets Frank hard again faster than he'd thought he could; hard and dripping by the time Cable starts working a finger into him along with his tongue.

He feels -- he feels wanted and special and somehow _valuable_ , like Cable is doing this to him, for him, solely to make Frank feel good. Like his pleasure matters more than anything else. The idea puts claws in Frank's throat, hot and tight and hard to breathe, before Cable's petting over his mind again, reassuring and calm. It's okay, it's fine; this is allowed too.

Cable sucks at his balls and kisses along his shaft, teasing more than trying to bring him off, while he fingers him. Frank doesn't know when he had time to slick his fingers; it's harder to keep track with Cable's telekinesis touching him too. It's admittedly overwhelming, so much sensation, so much and so good, and Frank lets himself want more, want it to keep going simply because it's nice to feel good.

"Let go," Cable tells him, and Frank exhales as he relaxes to grip of his hands, letting Cable hold him again. His fingers leave slick smears on Frank's skin as he trails them along the outside of his thighs, petting him as Cable shifts into position. It's no easier on Frank's back, his legs over Cable's shoulders, but the burn along the backs of his knees is lessened, and Frank can't imagine complaining.

When Cable pushes into him, his face creases in a tight sort of pleasure, like he's as overwhelmed as Frank. It's good. There's a bleed in their pleasure, Cable's mind still touching Frank's; it creates a sort of feedback loop, the physical pleasure resounding mentally in an echo-chamber between them, louder and louder. Frank is fucked but he feels Cable's pleasure at doing the fucking, and there's no room in his head for anything but how good it all feels.

Cable fucks him like they've got all the time in the world, and Frank grapples at his arms, his shoulders, the back of his neck, touching just to touch because he remembers, remembers Wade telling him that's what Cable liked. He wants to ask Cable to go faster, harder; he wants more, but he wants also to be _good_.

 _You are_ , Cable tells him, like it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. _You're so good, Frank, so good for me._

Frank's close. His fingers dig at Cable's shoulders, nails searching for purchase on slick flesh and bunching, corded metal. He's trying desperately to hold back, let Cable have his before Frank cums again. Then Cable smiles, gripping Frank between them and stroking just right, just this side of rough with a hand that's still greasy with lube, and there's nothing Frank can do.

"Good boy," Cable growls, watching Frank paint his own chest in cum. "There you are, just perfect."

It aches, hot and oversensitive, Cable continuing to pound into him, every drag over his prostate sending a surge of fire through Frank that makes him cry out weakly, cock still dripping, cum pooling at his collar and the hollow of his throat, matting in the hair of his chest. It feels like forever, a tortured eternity of too-much-too-good, before Cable cums buried in the heat of him, teeth bared and eyes closed.

After, Cable carefully pulls away, carefully lays Frank back flat, letting him hiss and wince without commentary, and disappears for the bathroom again. When he comes back, Frank floating in a hazy mental space that's dark and guilty and shot through with lingering flashes of pleasure-satisfaction-good, Cable smells like mouthwash, wet where he's washed himself off and carrying a wet rag.

Frank lets him clean him up, because that's what Cable wants. Because it feels nice, in the most basic way, to be gently handled by someone who gives a shit. Cable climbs into the bed on the other side, sliding up behind Frank and kissing his neck again, not trying to pull him out of that dark mental place, not negating it or making him like the ass he's sure he's being for wallowing there. He just kisses him and holds him, and let’s him drift.

He knows he's falling asleep, and knows he shouldn't let himself. Whole host of reasons he shouldn't settle in, spooned against this man. Should go home, should have a shower and change his clothes and maybe get something to eat.

He thinks about Cable teleporting his unconscious, injured body all the way to fucking Switzerland, halfway 'round the world, because he'd known Frank wouldn't let himself be looked after otherwise. He thinks about Cable telling him he's good and all the ways he seems to mean it, thinks about Wilson drinking his coffee and talking to him like he's just another person, like they're not killers or part of some unending war but just friends.

He thinks about socks, folded on his bed and patterned with huge dancing marijuana leaves, tasteless and tacky, beside a card signed with so much love it flows off the page.

He falls asleep with Cable's arm around his waist and his breath ghosting the hair at the nape of his neck. He falls asleep calm, content to go back to the slog of his never-ending war tomorrow.


End file.
